


Epilogue

by finlyfoe



Series: The Julia Files [5]
Category: Homeland
Genre: Backstory, Difficult Decisions, Epilogue, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, Flashback, Gen, POV Second Person, Revenge Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:50:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8347666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finlyfoe/pseuds/finlyfoe
Summary: Peter Quinn's life after the break-up with Julia DiazThis Epilogue completes "The Julia Files" which cover Peter Quinn's backstory w/in official lines.To enjoy the full story arc and the arc of the frame, read the other parts first.Many thanks to koalathebear, beta-reader of the entire collection :-)





	

Carrie is nearly finished looking through Peter Quinn’s small, secret trove of treasures. The last thing she takes out is a paperback novel, thick, clearly much read, the pages already yellowing with age. Charles Dickens, “Great Expectations.” An interesting choice of literature. No name, no dedication, no notes. On leafing through the pages she discovers a photo of young woman, dark hair, dark eyes, holding a baby in her arms, looking exhausted but happy. An in-hospital-right-after-birth-pic. So this must be Quinn’s kid and the mother… She takes a close look. Very pretty.

Carrie reaches for her cell-phone.

“Listen, Max, I found something which might take us further… A photo of his kid and the mother in the hospital. Hospital tag is visible, should be easy to track them….”

“Oh – _that_ picture… Virgil already followed up on that ages ago.”

“What? You never mentioned.”

“You never asked.”

“So, what did he dig up?”

“You gotta ask Saul. He went to see her.”

“Where does she live? What’s she like? What about the kid? How come they never-“

“Carrie, I have no idea. Nobody ever tells me shit. Call Saul.”

A pause.

“Anyway, that was ages ago. When Quinn first showed up on the scene and you didn't trust him….”

“How come no one ever told me! Fuck, we've gotta find her!”

“Why? What do you want from her?”

“But-“  
She stops herself. Max is right. This woman must have had her reasons… Another complicated, unhappy love-story. “Oh Quinn”, she murmurs with a sad smile on her lips as she studies the delicate features of his lost lover.

 

******

 

**December 2008**

 

Life is easy after you have fucked up royally.

No more tiptoeing. No more wondering. No more thinking that a man’s reach should exceed his grasp.

First priority is to leave the city.

Next: Erase the phrase „my girl“ from your memory. Erase being John.

Two and a half years you've defied the orders. Two and a half years, every time you got back, you called Julia first. Now you're stuck with Dar Adal.  
You keep ringing and ringing. As you're about to give up, clearly even Dar Adal might take a break over New Year’s Eve, the man finally answers.

"Peter.“

"Yeah.“

You take a breath, considering what to say next. "Can I come in for that additional debrief?“

"Of course. We can schedule you first thing on Monday. That will be the fifth, am I right?“

"What about – now?“

Silence for a beat. It goes on for another second.

"Have you talked to –?“

"No need to.“

Another beat.

"She left something for you. If you have a valid address….“

"I’ll pick it up.“

"Good. Straight on Monday, fifth of January?“

"Now. I'm driving up now…“

*

Dar Adal doesn’t comment when you keep him waiting in his office.  Nor does he offer coffee, tea or anything. He simply hands you a thick envelope. Usually you'd take it and leave before tearing it open. Now you rip the paper to confetti without meaning to. There’s the ring, you saw that coming, you let it disappear in the pocket of your pants. And a book. Charles Dickens, Great Expectations. You're at a loss. You’ve never been much of a novelreader, certainly not of 19th century British classics, so what does she want to tell you? You leaf through it, hoping for a letter, any kind of sign. Not a word, not a single line. A photograph though. Jules, holding the baby. You swallow hard. Must have been taken shortly after the birth, she still wears the plastic hospital tag around her arm. She looks happy, she looks exhausted, and you realize he might have been there, her new guy, he might even have taken that photo. God you should have taken him out while you could! - No wait, this is not Colombia. You can’t do this kind of thing here.

"Happy holidays“, someone says and you look up, confused, trying to come back to the here and now. Right: Dar Adal. You are at his office. The day before New Year’s Eve. In 30 hours it will be 2009.  
The year without Julia.

"Do you have any plans, Peter?“

You shrug.

Dar Adal looks at you intently. Catches a glimpse of the boy you used to be. Lost, taciturn, stubborn – _so that is why one shouldn’t recruit kids_ , _they get to you in a way they shouldn’t_. A thought he would mention to anyone only over his dead cold heart.

 "Any mission needs doing?“ You try to smile to make it look like a joke.

"You need a break, Peter. Why don’t you go somewhere nice… Sunshine and seaside…“

"Oh I had more tropic climate than I need… Maybe Europe.“

 "Speaking of Europe  - Rob's been stranded in Copenhagen. He missed his connecting flight, they didn't let him board because he was intoxicated. He showed up at the Embassy yesterday – you have his number I assume …?“

"Sure… “, you say and are about to leave, clutching that book as if for dear life (it will take you three years to start reading it), when a thought occurs to you. "What do you mean, she left it for me? How come she knows – this here? You?“

You can read in Dar Adal’s eyes he is alarmed.

"As I said, she left it.“

"How did she know about you?“

"We've spoken. Once.“

You stare at the man as if you have never seen him before.

"You - ? When? Why?“

"Calm down, Peter!  Release me!" His voice is sharp, not yet panicky, but uneasy beneath the calm. "Sit down.“

**July 2008, Langley, Dar Adal’s office**

So this is Peter Quinn’s girlfriend - Dar Adal eyes the petite brunette. An appealing face, determined eyes, clearly in the advanced stages of pregnancy and struggling to keep her inner turmoil in check.

“Miss Diaz, thank you so much for coming.”

She looks at him with burning eyes.

So this is John’s boss. A man who calls in the morning and expects you to obey his requests, immediately, without any question. She was picked up by a guy in a black limo, the man's silence not helping her nervousness and uncertainty - if John's boss wants to talk to her so urgently it means something bad has happened. Something really bad.

After one hour of driving they pull in at a gas-station. She doesn’t want to take a break, she doesn’t want to sit here with this silent driver, and she tells him so. So he talks for a change. John’s boss seems to have heard pregnant women have to use a restroom every so often and need a snack and a drink. It nearly makes her laugh, all this care all of a sudden.  
And it nearly makes her freak out.

“Look”, she says, “I don’t need a break, would you please take me to wherever it is we are heading?”

“Ma'am, please, we’ll be back on the road in five minutes tops, just let me know what you want and take the time to refresh yourself while I get it.”

So she asks for an apple and a bottle of water and heads for the restroom, splashing water on her face and letting it run over her wrists.

Ninety minutes later, when she is led into Dar Adal’s office, a visitor’s badge hanging from around her neck, she realizes that she's still clutching on the apple for dear life.

“Miss Diaz, can I offer you some refreshments? Tea, coffee, water…? A donut?”

“What happened to John?”, she snaps, not up for pleasantries.

A flash of recognition shows on his face, and she is appalled. John had told her never, never to let anybody know they had met back then in Baltimore. Never. He had been agitated about it at the time – and she realizes that she's made her first major mistake.

“Truth be told, Miss Diaz, there's been a breakdown in communications. We've lost contact. We don’t know how he's doing or even where he is. Peter Quinn is his legal name, by the way. I've asked you to come here to update you. His situation is - very sensitive and uncertain but he is a highly trained and skilful operator so at present we have no reason to believe this is a red alert situation.”

“So why did you asked me to come over so urgently?” - She sounds slightly exasperated.

Dar Adal hands her some documents. “For this.”

“What is it?”

“We want to help you and your child.”

“Meaning what?”

“We offer financial support to ensure your child’s future.”

She gasps. “So he _is_ dead?”

“Not that I know of, as already specified. But, Miss Diaz, let me get this straight. His field of work is extremely high risk. Are you aware of the nature of his commitments?”

She doesn’t reply.

“Don’t put his name on the birth certificate.”

“What?” She looks shell-shocked. “Is he walking out on us - you doing the dirty work for him?”

“I told you we've lost contact, and he definitely has other priorities right now.”

“You mean that this is not important enough? Me and the baby aren't important enough so all we get is some money and a fuck-off?”

“Miss Diaz, don’t get carried away. Given his circumstances, I really don’t think he is going to be up to providing the kind of family life you dream of.”

“What would you know about the kind of family life I dream of, Sir? What would you know about _any_ kind of family life?!”

If angry accusations and searing glances could kill, Adal would drop dead on the spot.

His voice stays calm, ostensibly concerned, her anger simply bouncing off him: “Don’t put his name on the birth certificate is all I am asking. Keep your child safe.”

“Why don’t you let him decide? He wants to be with us, he promised me… He’ll be there for the birth, he promised!”

“End of September, is it?”

She looks at this man, realizing he knows a lot more about her than she feels comfortable with, and her anger evaporates as fear takes over. Fear and an ominous feeling of dread.

“Miss Diaz – take those papers with you and try to read them impartially and without any bitterness.”

“I don’t need those, and I don’t need your Peter Quinn. I need John. My John, and he'll be there with us. He promised, and he'll keep his promise,” she insists although she's losing her sense of certainty by the second.

Dar Adal doesn’t argue with her, he just gives her a concerned look and pushes the papers towards her.

 

**December 2008, Langley, Dar Adal’s office**

You don’t want to sit.

Adal opens a drawer and takes out a bottle of Whiskey and two glasses. Laphroaig, 25 years old. Two fingers high for each of you.

He watches you drink and set down the glass.

"I asked her over ... after… the clusterfuck with our front man in Columbia… she had to know she didn’t have to worry, the kid would be provided for.“

The whiskey burns your mouth, your tongue, your throat. You need more of that pain.

"Provided for… when I'm dead?“

"Among other possibilities, yes. You've always known that your field of work is high-risk.“

You smile a bitter smile. "You never thought I could do it…”

“I wouldn’t have sent you if-”

“… be responsible. Be there for a kid…. For a family. I could quit, you know. I could. Here and now!”

“Peter… five minutes ago you implored me to send you on a mission… take a break. Reconsider. We’ll talk in a few days.”

He puts a valid passport in front of you. Which is not standard procedure – not before the additional debrief. You are not appeased.

“You never thought I had it in me. Fuck you!“

"Self-pity doesn’t suit you, Peter. Get a grip. It was standard procedure – we have to keep this child safe and well looked after.“

"So being a father isn't part of the deal.“

"In your line of work fatherhood is a potential risk, Peter.“

"And you’re gonna fix that with money?“

He looks at you before he takes the final shot. “Peter – it was for the best. For all of you.”

You want to break his skull, crush his bones, splatter his blood all over the white walls but all you do is get up and leave.

If life is so easy from here on, why do you feel so numb?

 

 

You take a flight out of Baltimore, of all places. Air Canada. 10 ½ hrs of flighttime, direct. You board in the early evening and land before noon. The whole day lies before you.

It’s raining in Copenhagen.

You take a taxi to the embassy. They tell you Rob left earlier that morning.

You grab your stuff – one small bag, handluggage – and enter the next best hotel bar, just opposite the embassy. It’s too early and you are jetlagged but you start drinking anyway. There’s only one other customer, a woman, early thirties, ponytail, curly blond hair, dark eyes. A slightly jaded expression on her face. Musing over a cup of coffee. She looks up, you look back and raise your glass.

“To the bars in Copenhagen.” Lame.

Still she smiles. “The coffee is good. You should try one.”

“You’re German?” you go at the same moment she says “You’re American, right?”  
You go over.

“Peter. From the embassy.”

“Astrid. NATO desk.”

You sit down at her table and order coffee.

“We never met, have we?” she wants to know.

You shake your head.

“I missed my flight back to Berlin. The next one was overbooked. Couldn’t bother to take the train… to be honest: I am happy I miss out on the New Year’s Eve celebrations and resolutions... And you, Peter? What about you?”

“About the same.”

“So – we drink to no more New Year’s Eve resolutions?”

“Yeah… and to that I quit.”

“You quit? That sounds like a New Year’s resolution!”  
“Yeah. No. Just…”

She smiles.

“No seriously, I need another life. Gotta think about stuff… change… my work-life balance.” You can’t help grinning because you realize you sound like a fucking moron.

She smiles some more and raises her glass.

“To those quitting their jobs. Amen.”

You clink glasses, then you drink.

You talk.

She is easy to talk to. She is easy to be silent with. There you sit, sip your coffee, sip your beer, sip your champagne, and you feel at ease. Not happy or excited, just – at ease. She gives you her attention and no judgement. You don’t have to be anything for her. Not witty not protective or engaging. It’s like you are talking to yourself in a way.

“So why do you prefer C4 over Semtex?” she asks and you realize you've been having a conversation on strange topics - for a guy and a girl in a bar on New Year's Eve.

The two of you are still here when the fireworks start. You walk up to the rooftop and marvel at the city, champagne flutes in hand.  

You embrace her somewhat stiffly, you are not sure if that’s what Europeans do, embrace and wish each other a happy new year. She looks at you and gets on her toes, takes your head in her hands a places a kiss on your lips. Nothing open mouthed.

“You tired?” you ask, meaning something else. Meaning let’s go to bed.

“First we have to dry up this bar, Peter”, she says in a serious voice, “you don’t quit everyday, right… Now look at the fireworks! I love fireworks…. So beautiful…”, and she puts her elbows on the balustrade and rests her chin in her hand.

 

You buy condoms from a vending machine in the men’s bathroom. You guess you're gonna share a room.

You do. You end up in bed but -

“Life’s far too short to have bad sex”, she says with an ironic smile and avoids your embrace. “You're drunk, Peter, I don’t want you to spoil our evening with a poor performance,” and she hands you a bottle of water and two pills, “Aspirin and magnesium”, she says when you send her a quizzical look.

You sleep surprisingly soundly.

You wake up because someone touches your shoulder. “I am sorry”, she says and hands you a toothbrush and a towel, “I gotta catch that flight….”

You take the hint and drag yourself into the bathroom, you shower, you brush your teeth, you get dressed. When you leave the bathroom, three things get your attention. First: It is still dark outside. Second: There’s steaming coffee on the bedside table. Third: Astrid half-sits, half-lies on the bed. Naked.

You take that coffee mug and look her up and down. Deliberately. Slowly. Thoroughly.

“So I am sober enough now?”

“I hope so.”

You sip that coffee and watch her. She’s not looking away, not at all -  her smile gets broader, playful, tempting.

“You like the coffee?”

“Very much”, you say, “very much,” and you come over to the bed and sit down next to her.

She sits up and takes off your T-shirt, then opens the night-drawer and hands you a condom.

“You don’t want me to miss my flight, do you”, she says and unzips your jeans. And yes, you do have sex. It feels good. Adult sex with the slightest whiff of ironic distance. The two of you move a lot, try different positions, you are both quiet and focused, a smile never too far away from your eyes. Two people who have been places and know how to take this seriously enough but not too seriously. A most amiable fling.

You set her off with your tongue and you fuck her from behind because you dig her ass, she has a great ass and you want to enjoy the view while thrusting into her, your hand on her neck, keeping her at a safe distance, she comes a second time while you are at it so yes, you are obviously sober enough. You freeze before you climax, you shudder, then rest for some moments, your knees start hurting, and she turns to face you and gives you the slightest of kisses and sighs “Gotta go, botheration…” and you both laugh because it's such a silly expression.

She tells you not to rush, check-out time is at 12, she just needs another quick shower and she'll be off, so you lay down and listen to her moving about in the bathroom, and you watch her dress and pack. She comes back to the bed and she touches your cheek tenderly, then gives you a peck.

“You always meet twice, Peter…” she says with a wink,

“I’d like that”, you go,

and she's gone...

You haven’t even kissed properly. Still you feel good. Relaxed. Avenged. Yeah, it’s pathetic but true: While you fucked this beautiful woman you thought of Jules. You thought how much you would want her to see you right now. To show her you don’t need her. To hurt her by fucking someone else.

How she hurts you by fucking someone else.

 

 

**2012**

You go from one assignment to the next. You’re good at it. Working solo mostly, sometimes rejoining the group. Every job a challenge, no boring routine. You are balanced.

You don’t expect to fall in love ever again. You don’t _want_ to fall in love ever again.

You contemplate getting sterilized. If a family is out of reach, it would be the sensible, the responsible thing to do. It would also mean succumbing to the kind of life Dar Adal has chosen for you. Weirdly enough, deep deep down you still seem to hold a tiny spark of hope for something else, not knowing what it might be, so you never get it done. 

You get a special assignment. To kill a terrorist. Congressman Brody of all people. It takes timing: He has to disclose some names and deliver the head of his organization first.

You are to lead an investigation team. One of your coworkers is a woman named Carrie Mathison, she's fraternized with the enemy in the past, now that's going to be used to draw Brody in. She is emotional and self-assured, she defies you. And she loves Brody. You know it before she does. You hear her losing control when they fuck, you watch her melting into his embrace, and it puts you on edge. A visible reminder what love looks like, inappropriate, inconvenient, smoldering love. Love defying all logic and all common sense. And you realize that you had it and threw it away for glass beads and stupid pride.

Around this time Julia calls you. It’s unexpected, it’s unprecedented. She wants to warn you, someone showed up to check you out. She wants to keep you out of trouble. So she still cares. It’s your own fucking colleagues, snooping on your classified assignment. Fucking Saul Berenson.

You stay ahead, close at Brody’s heels, prepared to take that shot. Carrie Mathison gets in the way so you gotta watch and wait, laying low. You eat tuna from a can, the loneliest guy on the planet, and you observe Carrie and Brody, a couple in love, and you find yourself cracking. Carrie and Brody, they cause a huge crack in your shell. You call Julia and tell her you wanna go back. She tells you she’s married now. Her firmness kills you. So you don’t ask the burning questions cos you couldn’t take the answer: Where was the point it could have gone right, and how come we missed out on it? How come I missed out on it?

You let Brody off the hook. Love is not meant for you but you don’t want Carrie facing the same dreary music. She gets to you in a way she shouldn’t.

And there's another, final encounter with Julia.  
It’s doomed right from the start because you are far too desperate. Everything's gone so wrong, the Brody you defied your orders _not_   to kill went and bombed the agency (or at least that’s what you think). You try to atone and while doing so, you shoot a kid in Caracas.

A kid.

You crave repentance and forgiveness.... and you are still the loneliest guy on the planet, desperate enough to try this most pathetic, humiliating and desperate thing: You show up out of the blue, at a playground, only moments away from losing it, reaching out to Julia.  
You are not welcome. She listens, concerned, then tells you to leave - friendly, but tough as nails. She’s done with you. She’s drawn the line and sticks to those boundaries now. Healthy boundaries.

Fuck it. In another life, you might have deserved a happy ending.

You are free, finally. Free to lose yourself in another epic, tragic, stupid love. You are a fool.

But as your mom put it once in one of her rare clear _and _tender moments: You're also a tough cookie.__

********

Carrie packs up Quinn’s few treasures and heads for the hospital. She hates seeing him pale and unconscious yet visits him daily. She feels obliged to.

“Hi Quinn”, she goes, brushing her lips over his cheek, “just brought you some personal stuff... figured it might cheer you up when you’re back with us. You gotta come back to us, you hear me?”

She sits down and takes one lifeless hand in hers.

“I need you here, you know that, so stop this unconscious bullshit, will you?”

She releases his hand with a sigh, dives for her bag, takes out the cardboard box with his pitifully few keepsakes.

“I’ll put those in your drawer… we're gonna talk about them one day, ok?”

She stops in her tracks, opens the box, takes out the ring, holds it up to admire it. Steadies her voice, determined to let a smile shine through.

“Quinn - you don’t mind if I borrow this ring, do you?... it’s kind of nice….”, and she takes the Claddagh, then leans over him and whispers in his ear: “… as if I was your girl, you know?”

 She has to twist and pull it a little to get it over the knuckle of her finger but once it’s there, it fits perfectly.  

 

THE END

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Inappropriate love" - courtesy of snqa and a certain prompt I left out
> 
> Liked the story? Wanna discuss it or know more about the author? -> http://homelandstuff.livejournal.com/11871.html#comments


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